Cider Clock

Blop, blop, blop!
Time is measured in my kitchen,
By the,
Blop, blop, blop!
Cider slowly fermenting.
Gases gradually expanding out the air-lock.
I know that eventually it will slow,
And when I come to bottling.
There shall only be the
Tock, tock!
Of the kitchen clock,
To remind me of mortality.

Cider

Today we are making cider.
It is a glorious autumnal day.
Set up beneath the giant Lime tree.
The press, the chopper, the apples.
So it is cut, slice and toss.
Fallers, scavenged and grown apples of many varieties,
Of dubious pedigree.
Into the hopper.
Hop on the bike.
Treadle the pedals.
And the chop, crush, smash
Chopper does its work making apple mash.
Squirts of juice splash.
Apple pieces miss the bucket,
Later the geese will find them.
Into the drum with its fluted sides of birch.
The heavy steel top is laid down.
Then the screw.
The turning begins easily and the brown nectar flows.
Out onto the stainless plate and through the moulded spout into a little bucket.
Strained and added to the growing swirling brown sea of liquor.
When we're done and the mess cleaned,
We will await its blop, blop,
Through the air lock.
When its slowed its singing,
We'll bottle it,
With a teaspoon of sugar and a sultana.
Our home-made cider.